Category Archives: Politics

For Immediate release from the office of the Press Secretary, Sean Spicer. The following press briefing concerns the steps taken to create the Trump™ Wall, as well as the duties of the Press Corp and their expected treatment of the office of the Press Secretary. This press briefing is due for immediate release to all media organizations with a rating of “Not Shitty” and higher.

​​​​James S. Brady Briefing Room

3:05 P.M. EDT

Mr. Spicer: Sorry for the delay guys, it’s pizza day. I was supposed to kick this off with my pal Kellyanne. She’s really busy and is doing important business things, key business events and duties. So my goal is we bang out your stupid questions first today and then I’ll drop a vital piece of information as Kellyanne walks in right on cue, and then she’ll talk to you as your editors struggle to put together a half decent non-sensationalized story. So hopefully this all works out.

Before I take questions, I’m gonna shake things up – I’m gonna call on my New York Times buddies. Saw what you guys said the other day, alright. Not even gonna bite. I do so know who Hitler is. He’s my favorite golfer. If that’s controversial, then I don’t want to be PC. Sure, he’s not perfect, but who hasn’t had dealt with a little marital strife? We can’t all be Pence. So he cheated on his wife, at least he played an honest game! Great numbers, that Hitler. I remember when he won the masters, god I love the masters, golf is the only American sport. Don’t even understand why this was a story…making this a race thing when my favorite golfer is half-black.

Whatever.

Go ahead.

Ask the question.

Now.

NYT: That’s literally not anywhere close to who Hitler is?

Mr. Spicer: Okay.

NYT: …Actually, this is a great segue into our question is: what the fuck is wrong with you?

Mr. Spicer: I’m sorry? Do you not like golf?

NYT: Seriously, “At least Pol Pot just killed nerds with glasses?” What the fuck is wrong with you dude?

Mr. Spicer: H’okay then. It’s like that. Alright. Listen guy, I just work here, okay? There’s this assumption going around that I enjoy being around you people. You, in your weird ivory high road tower — you hacks at the Times are almost as bad as “Democracy Dies in the Darkness” over there. Yeah that’s right Washington Post, I know you snuck into this briefing. Maybe next time try to be a little less conspicuous and just leave the merch table in the van, hmm?

WaPo: Point taken…

Mr. Spicer: You all can’t just throw questions at me and expect that I’ll answer them, that’s a very New York way of looking at a problem.

NYT: But that literally makes n—

Mr. Spicer: I understand what you’re trying to say but I literally do not care. I just work here day in and day out while you take Buzzfeed quizzes on your phone, that’s right I fucking know about your phone CNN Mike. Do you think I have read a history book in my goddamn life? Do you think I understand the socio-economic crisis plaguing the global economy? No, I fucking don’t. President Trump has been in office for over 60 days now, and you think I enjoy any of this? I mean, I do because I used to work at a Dennys and its just nice to come home sometimes and not smell like syrup. Have you ever worked at a Dennys? Have you ever woken up every morning, rode your bike six miles, and then spent eight hours serving eggs in all-too-bright single-parent purgatory? I mean, my coworkers were actually pretty great but all that is beside the point. I hate literally all of you, I hate that you don’t care about my opinion in music. What I don’t hate is the American taxpayer, unlike you MSNBC Karen. Whatever. Press Conference over.

NYT: What?

Mr. Spicer: Thanks guys, I look forward to seeing everyone except the organizations I have now deemed “Kind of Shitty”. Take care.

Working frantically to dispose of the lifeless, shriveled husks that cover the floor, a White House Janitor admitted today that she is tired of cleaning dead objects out of Steve Bannon’s office.

“It never stops. Every evening I come in and there’s something new lying on the carpet,” she says, glancing furtively over her shoulder to make sure Bannon has left. “I always make sure to come extra late, because the last time I ran into him here he brandished an ornate dagger at me and asked me to look upon the engravings with respect. He said ‘This has been passed down for generations among the patriarch of my family. The artist who made it now burns in hell, for his soul can never be clean.’ What a weird guy, am I right?”

When asked what kind of dead objects she tends to find, the White House Janitor, Lucy Phillipps, merely shrugs.

“Lots of things. The more appropriate question would be ‘what haven’t you found?’” She says. “We’re talking rats, cats, mice, otters, butterflies, badgers, little snakes, big snakes, really big snakes, and lots and lots of crows. Always big black birds, ravens sometimes too. One time I found this big bird looking thing with sharp claws and a woman’s face. Steve lingered long enough to tell me it was called a ‘harpy’, before vanishing into the shadows as he usually does. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him truly walk out the door.”

When interviewed for comment, the White House Florist expressed a similar frustration.

“Oh, I hate working in Steve’s office,” the florist, Daniel Jenkins, says. “Every potted plant I’ve ever put in there has shriveled up into ashy little husks. I have to scoop them out daily, and throw them away. Even the fake ones I put in there managed to die somehow!”

Asked if he finds any of this behavior unusual, Jenkins shakes his head. “He can be stressful to clean up after, but it’s no skin off my back. I’ve worked here for many years and there have always been strange ones that come and go. Occasionally Steve looks at me weird, and I can hear the screaming of my loved ones playing on loop in the back of my head, but at the end of the day he’s still my boss, and I’ve got to respect that. Sometimes, in the mornings, when he comes in after a late night of binge drinking and what I assume to be shrill screaming over an open fire—as his voice is always pretty warn and he smells of smoke—he’ll let me take a shot out of his flask. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before, and it smells real foul, but I’ve come to like the taste of it. Sort of, uh, metallic, I think?”

At press time, reporters were barred from the White House, but for an actual legitimate reason this time, as the medical staff rushed to deal with a fallen dignitary. When pressed for comment a White House Official only offered that Mr. Bannon “probably forgot to wear his gloves again.”

Over the weekend, President Hillary Clinton decided to pay a visit to the iconic establishment, “Heaven’s Slice,” in New York City. As reporters swarmed the scene and prompted Hillary with dozens of questions about her food choices that afternoon, she proclaimed adamantly that she would only try one slice of, “Heaven’s Slice” pizza because she had eaten a, “rather large breakfast.” When she was finished, Hillary then retracted her earlier statement saying, “who am I kidding? One slice was simply not enough for this amazing place. I’ll have another!” An email sent to her daughter Chelsea was later discovered exposing that Hillary had in fact had not one, not two, but THREE slices that afternoon. Amazing. President Clinton may have enjoyed the pizzeria but she didn’t make her intentions clear from the start. Time and time again, Mrs. Clinton has showcased her flip-flop nature and sadly, it will only continue. One can only hope that the next person to take the Oval Office will be sure about how many slices of pizza they would like to eat, and will also add garlic knots on the side.

This scandal unsurprising occurs days before Wikileaks dropped a massive email dump, revealing Hillary Clinton’s master plan: the HC-Ultra mind control program. You can read the email for yourself, or whatever. President Clinton’s plan to control the general population with experimental mind altering substances, along with her recent ‘lax’ view on drugs, are just petty distractions—unlike like the pizza, which is the only evidence that should be required to determine that Hilieroni Clintaroli is unfit for office. She lied. She said she would have one, but she had more. Hillary Clinton dreams of an America completely under her control. One where she can show up at Pizzeria’s and eat 4 slices without anyone thinking to judge her or captioning online photos with, “fatty,” “Whale-ary,” and the like. And sure, she killed Honduras. But I digress. Hillary held a press conference to address the concerns of the American people. In the middle of her speech, President Clinton said something very interesting, “America is facing a mental health crisis, and I want Americans to have access to the very best methods of treatment. If the research proves itself, maybe we can all come together as one and mend the restless minds of those who need it.”

Come together as “one?”, “Mend the restless minds?” The subtext is clear. Hillary Clinton wants to create a meek band of followers to push along her agenda and to divert attention from her horrid actions. Yeah, maybe she is legitimately concerned about our nations mental health. Sure. I’ll bite. Or perhaps it is a smokescreen, designed to hide her doughy indiscretions in plain (with extra sauce) sight! Just like Wikileaks, which has clearly been under her dominion all along. A country that thinks as one is not the America I want to live in! What about freedom? What about choice? What about publicly bashing Shrillary? These are virtues Hillary Clinton has never valued.

I encourage all readers to be mindful of security hacks in their computers and mobile devices. I fear that after this is published, I may disappear. Does this sadden me? Not in the slightest. Losing my life at the expense of saving the American public is the most noble sacrifice I could ever dream of. Stay well my friends and (maybe) farewell.

I’d received a job late one Thursday night, from the League of People with No Hair but Who Really Wish They Had Some. Trump was a hairless menace giving us a bad name with that rug, and he needed to be stopped. There was only one cue-ball who could break in and put an end to President Trump’s tyrannical-mean-and-not- so-nice reign (By the way, I’m bald by choice, I choose to shave because I think it looks dashing.) That one person was me, your very glabrous thirty-ninth President of these blessèd United States of America, Jimmy Carter. Just as all ex-leaders of the free world, I can dissolve into water vapor as it passes through an Ionic Breeze Quatra (as seen on TV.) I slipped in through his sniffles in the night. I made my way to the location of a normal human’s brain and lay in wait for hours.

The door to Trump’s Head Office opened. A figure walked into the room and flicked the light switch, nearly brushing by me, your very handsome thirty-ninth president, Jimmy Carter. Just to be safe, I receded back into the wall disguising myself as a portrait of your very crafty thirty-ninth president, Jimmy “The Body” Carter. Presidential powers come in handy quite often. A large computer, lining the inside of Trump’s glistening, supple forehead whirred to life:

“Oh my gawd it’s like a sauna in here,” cried the little green monkey turning the crank shaft that drives Donald Trump’s brain, “they don’t pay me enough for this shit.” His voice was raspy like a little green monkey with a raspy voice. He ate the banana that Melania had supplied for him today. He was staring at the screen that was giving him instructions for his 16 hour shift. The work area in Trump’s head got especially hot during interviews. He finished turning the crank, the inner workings of the motor continued behind him.

Loading Wall.txt
Topic: Walls
“Wall? (Y/N)”

“Of course we should build a wall. We need to keep illegals out of our country!” he walked off from the crank and scrambled over to his desk, hidden under piles of documents. He rummaged through a mound of papers, overturning them to reveal various birth certificates, some skewed penis size graphs, and his glasses. Boing-Boing was near sighted after all.

Warning: Nostril Pressure Critical

The monkey who was both green and little scrambled to the pressure release valve. After taking a quick reading of the gauge, he solved a level 8 Sudoku puzzle which of course relieves the pressure in most traditional Meiji period architecture. You know.

Following what had to be hours of various menial tasks, the exhausted little green monkey collapsed onto the mail cart, spreading an obscenely-sized ocean of letters across the floor. For a moment, he lay there utterly still. In the next several moments, he did the same exact thing. He was out cold.

I knew the opportunity as I saw it. I’d been eyeing the TD Bank pen propped up against a little sculpture that read “Donald Trump’s Candy Crush High Score: Probably 10.” I had already stolen 7.5 pens from various pigeonholes throughout his noggin. Being rather skilled at espionage, your very… discreet thirty-ninth president, James “The Jim Jam” Carter slurmped out of the wall and dropped like a hunk of moist pasta onto the ground. Each and every one of my newly formed bones ached but there was no time for pain when you’re me, your very perseverant thirty-ninth president Jammin’ James. Like democratic lightning, I flew towards the desk and claimed my prize. But then I gazed upon the treasure of all treasures.

I was transfixed. It felt like this former Georgia governor’s eyes were finally failing him as he descended into death and had subsequently awoken in some far off paradise. Before me was a Red Carbon Delta Momo 30th Limited Edition Fountain Pen with 18Kt Fusion Nib and Black Rhodium finish. I was so preoccupied with signing my incredibly presidential name that I scarcely noticed the admittedly-smaller-than-average Screamin’ Green (76FF7A) monkey who was, of course, wearing a shirt, stirring behind me. You lose the presidential power of eyes on the back of your head when you leave office.

It was at that moment I felt the distinct pain of a monkey’s wrench to the back of my skull. It was a monkey wrench to be precise. I wheeled about to see a monkey wrench himself up off the ground and rush towards the “Jimmy B Gone™ spray located beneath the toppled mail cart. Jimmy B Gone™… my only weakness. I knew if I was gonna survive I’d need to get out, and fast. I sashayed over to the door at a normal human rate and went for the handle. As I slipped through the the door I looked back. The Boingster had only just regained his footing. Just before I finished my escape I smirked and jeered, “enough of that monkey business.” Text appeared on the computer screen one last time:

Ho, there, son! Sit your little butt down. You can cry all you want but you’re not getting out of this one so buckle up! You’re in for a ride. I, your Pappy, am gonna tell you a story like my Pappy told me, and like his Pappy told him before that, and like his Great-Grand-Pappy-In-Law told him before that and like all the Pappy’s before them told to their lil‘uns before that – may they rest in peace………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sorry, son, I just must always pay respects to the Pappy’s who done come before me. After all, if they didn’t your Pappy wouldn’t be able to come after—sorry!—just a little Pappy humor. Anyway, let’s get this wagon rollin’. Late at night, when I couldn’t sleep, and Pappy would be shuffling the halls at night shouting your Meemaw’s name – he would do this a lot, his old mind went quickly, may he rest in peace –he would come in my room, and tell me this story.

Back in the year of Two-Oh-One-Six, the town of Crookdoone had lost its status as a town. The legend, as it was told to me, has it that it was a very sunny day down in Crookdoone when the presidential hopeful Mr. Trump came to visit on his campaign trail. In a moment of rest, he decided to take off his shoes and stick his toes in the soft dirt the town was known for – that was their slogan, you know? Visit Crookdoone, we got soft dirt! And damn, did they have the softest dirt. So, he stuck his toe in the dirt but the sun was blaring on it all day, and it was so hot it burned his big toe. “A total mess!” he yelled, droplets of spittle spraying onto his intern. He smacks the coffee out of his intern’s hand and throws his arms up in the air. “Crookdoone is not our friend. What a totally corrupt place!” And with that, once he was awarded the opportunity to rule, he forced everyone to evacuate the town.

But, the brave Bull Tornhollow decided to stay.

“This is MINE now,” he exclaimed. You might be wondering who he was talking to. It was no one. Everyone had already left at this point. This part left me boggled, myself, but I’m just telling this like My Pappy told me and His Pappy told him before that, and well, you get it.

But anyway, for years after that, ol’ Crookdoone had been his territory. From dawn until dusk, Bull would pace the deserted streets up and down, ready and armed for anyone willing to have a little hoedown. For a long time, no one had. Untiiiiiiiiiiiil…

On a warm morning, Bull woke to the sound of wheels on Crookdoone’s now-dried-and-not-soft dirt. In a tizzy, he jumped out of bed, grabbed his holster and adorned his weapon to his side. Now son, it could have been a bunny, or a mountain lion, or just his imagination – Bull thought he was losing his mind, just like your ol’ Pappy ha ha ha ha ha ha haaa – but he couldn’t take any chances. Peeking his head out of his doorframe, Bull fastened his eyes on what stood down the road ahead of him.

It was a man! Bull stamped out of his house. Bull was a very respectable man, son. His Cole Haan shoes scuffed against the ground, accenting perfectly pleated pantaloons, and a white button-down shirt, a tie, tightly around his neck, showing the competitor that he was a modest, but tough fighter. One hand gripped his holster, the other tipped a cowboy hat. He bore a resemblance of one of those Big Business Men coming from the office to go to a Brad Paisley concert at Madison Square Garden. Ha! Ha! I make myself laugh. Anyway…

“Howdy!” Bull said cheerfully, a scare tactic.

The man was not phased as Bull approached him. He rolled a skateboard back and forth with one foot, his baggy jeans frayed at the ends and falling at his hips. Most frightening to Bull was the faded wolf image on his t-shirt, two sizes too large. He kept messy long hair back with a checkered cap. Why he didn’t cut the darn thing is beyond me, you know? He has to brush loose pieces of hair out of his face before he spoke, always jerking his neck back and forth! It’s bad for your neck, boy—but Pappy’s getting away from the yarn, now. The man spoke.

“Sup,” he finally said, his voice deep and booming. Bull noticed a holster also adorned to the man’s hip and grips his own a little tighter. He never thought he would have to put up this much of a fight with someone who could barely even keep his pants up. Anyway, no one said anything for a while and Bull found himself getting angry at the silence, and at how little the man cared, he hadn’t done anything but flip his hair out of his face and roll his skateboard with his foot.

Growing impatient, he said, “What are you doing here? Who are you?” The man’s hand moved to the holster.

“Name’s Shady Mesa, I’m just coming to chill,” He said, super chill. Bull was in disbelief. Bull had never dealt with these types before. He didn’t know what this Californ-I-A Casual had in him, but he knew that “coming to chill” meant his territory was at stake.

And with a swift movement they were off. Bull reached into his holster and pulled out his FATBABY 100 WATT and took a deep pull. He let the sweet taste Grandmaster by Five Pawns (*An E-Liquid) hit the back of his throat for a minute, the smooth peanut butter, and caramel taste sticking to his throat, reminding him of the caramel chews his Mimaw kept on her coffee table, paired with the slight hint of banana. And with that, he exhaled through his mouth sending plumes of vapor into the air. Hah, he thought, that’ll show him. No one could beat his FATBABY 100 WATT. It was best known on the market for low resistance, and thus, incredible cloud production. Not to mention no one could even come close to his ADV (*All Day Vape); Grandmaster was voted as the E-Liquid customers were more satisfied with that past year.

As the smoke faded, Bull met eye to eye with Shady. From his holster, Shady revealed a small pen, a vape starter kit, ego style battery 220 mAh (*Milliamp Hours). Bull can’t help but burst into laughter. Incredible, he thought, this kid thinks he can beat me with a starter. Bull turned away, knowing that Shady had lost this fight, before he smelled the sweet nectar of Mother’s Milk in the air. A sweet strawberry scent, creamy and custardy, reminded him of his own home, and how his Mama and Mimaw used to bake sweet treats like yours do. He swung back around to watch as Shady has managed more cloud production, plumes of vapor lingering, forming themselves into shapes around him.

Panicked, Bull took another deep pull. However, his breaths were shaky and the vapor came out in small clouds, nothing like Shady’s. Bull accepted defeat. There is no way he could match up to such a competitor.

Shady’s grin grew. He knew he has won. Bull fell the ground, overcome with emotion. And with one final pull, Shady exhaled, clouds of thick vapor again lingering around him. Some say that Shady stepped out of the clouds—clouds so high they could block the sky—and bent to whisper a message into Bull’s ear, caramel caressing his canal. Others say that when the smoke cleared, Shady was nowhere to be seen, and never to be seen again. Others still say the letters themselves began to take shape! This time into letters and words. But no matter which Pappy told what, one thing remains the same: When the smoke cleared, Bull squinted his eyes to read Shady’s message, and the message read only, “Make America Vape Again”.

And that’s how it goes. Ooh boy, do you hear that? You can faintly hear the sound of my late Pappy shufflin’ these halls. He must be so proud that I passed on this story to you. One day, when you’re a Pappy, you’ll be passing this story down too to your lil’uns. Alright, son, now quit your cryin’ and go to bed, Pappy’s got some more yellin’ to do.

I am sitting in my leather rolling throne, writing to you now because I don’t know what else to do. I am holding back a scream. I am your friend, and I need you, and you aren’t here.. I am sick in your absence. I am trying to be strong, but it is hard. We are friends – all of us – and yet you are all together, and I am apart, and I am absolutely sick. If you are reading this, then you should already understand. You know that we are a close-knit circle of many friends, and so you know that I am not just being my usual funny (ahahahahaha!) self when I write to you and tell you that I need you to come to me and help me. Come see me at my address, which is 42 Pennsylvania Way, the White House. Ask for Hillary.

I have many issues that I would like to tell you about, but you have to promise not to tell anybody except for the other friends in our circle. That’s a lot of people, and I know we will all enjoy the discussion, except I will not because I have many issues affecting my emotions. You are my friends, and so you know when I’m sad. You know when I’m sad because I will – when I am happy I will – I will finish some sentences with a sound like this! I’ll do some of these! Some exclamations. But I can only exclaim one sound right now: a single scream, so low that it only reaches my friends in the oceans and other places down below.

I will get into the problems that I’m having shortly, but first I want to pretend you are with me. I cannot take the time that we are apart from each other. I miss you. I want to ride atop your shoulders. I want to wade amongst your starving masses. It is 1975 and I am suddenly back at the Steely Dan concert. A man has pulled my breast out for a brief taste, but I wish to be devoured whole. Perhaps you know where this is going, perhaps you do not. That’s okay. Either way, it is time for the pledge:

I am a Friend. I am a Good Friend, and I will stay this way for as long as I know Her. For as long as She is my Friend, I will take care of Her, just as She has taken care of me. I will hear Her scream and I crawl on bare knees across hot coals to find Her.Am I A Loyal Friend?
Am I A Loyal Friend?
I pledge to be – for Hillary – a Friend Until the End.
Am I A Friend with Heart?
Am I A Friend with Heart?
I pledge to be – for Hillary – A Friend Who Does Their Part.
I’m With Her

Say it out loud now, just as you would if you were here with me. Pretend I am watching, and I will smile my smile steady and wide as if you are living between the cracks of my teeth. I will explain my issues, and so you will know how to help me. Here is what I have to say: Some of the drawers on this desk are very heavy, and I want to say something about it, but some of these people can’t be trusted. If you’re walking around the inside of my walls, trying to get me to crawl in again, you’re probably not somebody I can confide in. I’ve learned.

I have a tickle in my throat. I would like a glass of water, but the water they put in my house tastes bad. The water in this house has bad minerals in it – toxic minerals. These minerals – the taste in my mouth from them – these minerals are no good. When I lived here before, I had my own bottled water (this was when water was cheap). One night, I was very thirsty and got up for a drink. I went into the big kitchen, but Al was there; it seemed he was always there at night.

“Up for some water?” he asked me, smirking. That was when Al was happiest, before the world got hot.

“I was. But now, I think I will pull out my breast.” I said this back to him, he paused, and I continued pulling out the breast that was once claimed by Daryl Hall, and then later by his friend and partner, John Oates.

This moment of infidelity continues to haunt me. My heart is simply too big to move on from this, my one great mistake. Do any of my friends know hypnotism? Do any of my wonderful friends know the Keys to Forgetting?

I am missing somebody, but I am unsure of how to reach out. E-mail seems impersonal, and the many people who dress me in the morning have told me not to use it. It is hard to always be connecting when time has made looking at each other more difficult, but the sky is far from it’s brightest at this moment. It will be much brighter soon. Ideally I would like to hear somebody’s voice, but I also do not want to see their lips. Only in my mind would I like to see their lips. In my mind I can always see a smile. I have decided I will use the phone.

What has happened to the man who used to work in this house? He lived near the door and whispered little-known facts to me. He was one of my friends.

“President Eisenhower couldn’t swallow liquids,” he would say to me. “Eisenhower knew about the minerals.”

His name was Scott and he was Korean-American. He was born in St. Louis. I would like to call him.

Friends, I know you will help me. I know you will seal your lips in hot wax if I ask. You are all so talented. You are all so important to me, and because I am just like you, I will say to you what I have always wanted to hear from one of my friends:

Your friendship is a blessing. You are loved and you are valued. You are integral to the prosperity of this country. You are funny and you make the people around you forget their bad feelings. You are fashionable. You are self-aware and people admire you for this. When you are not around, all of your friends talk about how impressive you are. When you are not around, everybody misses you. Sometimes we talk about how you might die some day – how you will die some day, eventually – and we get upset, and we talk about what we would say at your funeral. We would discuss your loyalty, and leadership capabilities, and your lifelong battle against the odds to achieve all that you have. We would note how you looked so good for your age, even towards the end, and how your smile never ceased to inspire envy. We would reminisce on your rambunctious attitude – so polarizing and infectious. And the pride you had for your father who was a hard working minister of drapery, as well as a town selectman before he killed that dog with a shovel.

Imagine I am saying this to you and smile together. Stand up, wherever you are, and smile. Don’t be shy – you’re among friends. You’re always among friends now. I am smiling too. I am imagining that you all are saying those kind words to me! You are harmonizing. Scott is there with you, and he has placed me on speaker phone. I am screaming and I am crying, and Scott is crying too. We are all wet with tears, and we are all harmonizing. It sounds good, like a chorus of angels crying over the phone.

I see and hear all of this in my head, a beautiful movie not unlike What Dreams May Come starring Robin Williams. Tears are running down my cheeks now, but I am no longer sad. I am thinking of my friends. I am thinking of the people I love and how they love me. My eyes are closing and I must stop writing. I am ready to see you. I am ready to give everything I have to be with you. I am ready to be a part of you now. You need not come to me, friends. I was wrong to ask so much. I was wrong to demand. It is not necessary now; I am on my way to you. To all of you.It’s time, Tim. Everything has happened just the way I said it would. This new world will be yours now. This future we dreamed up together – for how long did we dream of this? It seemed impossible and inevitable, and it is both. Enter the codes, Tim. Enter the codes and deliver us into a beautiful tomorrow.

There’s a few things they don’t tell you when you become President. I guess that’s part of the gig, and I guess I understand. But it’s still a drag, folks, I can promise you that. Yeah, yeah, you get the Nuclear Codes and that sleek new phone. You get a bunch of new dress shoes and a free FitBit. OK. Neat. That stuff is definitely fun for the first couple months, especially for a guy like me who knows how to take advantage of a good thing when he sees it. But the list of things they haven’t given me? That one’s growing longer by the day. I mean really, the key that locks my bathroom from the inside has been missing since I moved in, and I can’t seem to find my son Eric’s lips anywhere! On top of that, my daughter Tiffany looks like if someone randomized the features on a Sim. I’ll just say it: someone around here is getting fired if this madness doesn’t cease, and I don’t care if it’s everybody or just the person who looks least like my youngest son, the inimitable Barron.

But listen, can I say something for a minute? Look, not to harp on a topic beyond any reasonable degree until it’s just basically opportunistic exploitation, but I have a suspicion that Pence tried to switch keychains with me in the ballroom last week. Am I saying he’s behind this? No. Did I ever say that? I never said that. But, just so you understand more about the situation, mine was made with that lightweight stuff the Russians use and his resembles the sort of weather worn keyring you’d see a groundskeeper carrying in a good movie. So take that information and do with it what you will. And hey, listen, the man is my VP and he has my respect. Can I say that? That’s a pretty nice thing to say. But honestly – if I can be honest with you – we all know he’s a dead-eyed rat from the shit-ridden depths of Hick County. I’ve put actual money down in Vegas that he’ll die before the end of my first term, probably from scurvy. Or a gun.

Moving on – you all need to really listen now, okay? I can’t get sidetracked here. There are much bigger things at play. Now, what was I getting at? Oh yeah, so back to these Jews and their banks this laundry list of mysteries that expands by the moment am I the only one thinking to myself, “What the hell is going on here?” What is going on here, folks? Something simply needs to be done, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s right, I’m talking aboutthese Jewish people and their vice grip on our wonderful worldthis cursed labyrinth known as the White House to some, the MAGA Mecca to a select devoted few, and as Barron’s Boyhood Hellscape by my youngest, the boy Barron. Barron loves to use big words around me because he knows I’m hard to impress. I never acknowledge him for it, because then he would feel as though I’m easy to impress, and that would make me feel weak. If there’s one thing I can tell you folks with an honest heart, it’s that I never allow my youngest son to feel as though he’s figured out who or what I am. (That makes me smart.)

Now I feel as though I’ve been twiddling my thumbs trying to get this next part out. Can I say that? Am I allowed to say that? Well, I just did. The thing is, I took all of your money and your votes so that I could infiltrate this little secret club house they call Washington Politics; and while I think you’ve been fairly happy with my accomplishments to date (Adios, gynecology quacks!), there’s one thing you have to know about why I’m sending out this e-mail via a private server. You see, when I first stomped down that Hall of Important Men on my inauguration day, all the Washington rank-and-file thought they knew what to expect. They knew I was a renegade looking to shake things up the way Mike Pence shakes his ever growing Sock-Full-of-Doorknobs at homeless single mothers… but they had no idea I would tell you all the truth. They didn’t think I’d talk about the body doubles, never thought I’d spill the beans on the 50-foot-deep underground breeding complex where every President since Eisenhower has lived out his term, and in some cases, the rest of his life. Remember when I referred to the White House as a “cursed labyrinth flooded with samples of soured jisolm?” Well folks, I wasn’t just being cute.

To get right into the thick of it with you: President Eisenhower believed that through killing enough Nazis, he had earned something like a Divine Right of Kings, more or less making him the perfect man. Oddly enough, Hitler and the Nazis killed way more people, and loved to do their own construction. And they thought they were the perfect men! And I think that I’m the perfect man. And I love construction! Pretty crazy when you think about it folks – three famous leaders, three very intelligent men, all really similar guys when you break it down like that.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, okay, okay. Alright. As someone who is getting pretty close to being God in his own right, I can definitely understand the mindset that Ike brought into the whole ordeal. He wanted to make America a great nation full of great looking leaders, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But even I can say he took things a little too far. He built a vast underground complex, something like the boutique section of a cruise ship mixed with a hospital, except it’s a hospital where every other room you walk into looks like the part of a bukkake set where the camera pans over to all the ugly guys tugging in lonesome unison.

Ike thought that if he just had a little more time to produce samples – if only there were a few more hours in the day – he could fix this mess of a country all on his own. But you see, folks, this is where things got real tricky. Once the complex was built to Ikey’s likey, he knew he had started something that could slowly shape history. He knew that for the first time since the days of Thomas Jefferson, the President of the United States could covertly code the genetics of an entire generation. He knew his life was more valuable than any other on Earth. That’s when he ordered the first true Presidential body double – some recently retired Army seargent who wanted nothing more than to get potentially assassinated while the real Eisenhower spent hours at a time fighting through what he called “concentration cramps” in an effort to “liberate the juice.” (It’s in the manifesto folks, don’t go shooting the messenger).

I know what you’re wondering: “Was the real JFK assassinated?” “Was the real Nixon a crook?” “Is it so outrageous to assume that Ronald Reagan probably didn’t cum a whole lot?” The answer to all three is, resoundingly, Yes. (Reagan was a Stallion straight through to his final breath). As for all the questions you have about me, well, I’m afraid I can’t answer many of them just yet. The Republicans and Democrats have teamed up to try to take me down, and yet I’ve continued to put this America first. I know that if I just tell the world what I’m doing all the time, you can imagine what would happen. (Bada Bing, Bada Boom. ISIS. You all know what I’m talking about). But I can promise you one thing folks – I don’t like to make promises, but if I can just make a promise right now I’d like to. I promise you this: if you like the way my daughter Ivanka looks even half as much as I do, then you’re going to ab-so-lutely love what this nation has coming.

Hempstead, NY – Already ten minutes late for class, local Hofstra Honors College student, Joe Ryan, 21, has chosen to take one last class off to recover from the first presidential debate held at Hofstra University which concluded a little over three weeks ago. When asked about the seven classes he has skipped since the debate Ryan said, “I was just so washed out, ya know? It’s a once in a lifetime experience, and I just need a break.” Ryan is among a growing minority of students who swear they would have been fine if the school’s administration had just given them the day off immediately following the debate that concluded on Sept. 27th, 2016.

Three weeks after the event, Ryan skipping class and the few remaining banners are the only evidence of Hofstra’s third presidential debate. Professor of sociology, Matt Eastwood, remains sympathetic to his students cause. “The students were just so excited, and I mean I’m sure they’ll get their work in on time,” said Eastwood, “Students never take advantage of my relaxed attendance policy.” Eastwood then returned to teaching his class of three freshmen while the last upperclassmen packed up and left.

When asked about his professor while taking a casual stroll to the Acid Fields, Ryan said, “Oh yeah Eastwood is super great… he taught me a lot about psychology? Good guy, his class is in Breslin though which is a little inconvenient for me, but I’ll be back once I get caught up on work I missed in the debate.” Many students joined Ryan in recovering from the stress that occurred almost 18 business days ago, caused by Hofstra’s third presidential debate.

While students are slowly, but totally catching up on the work they missed while preparing for the one-day event that occurred over 23 full days ago, Hofstra administration begins to prepare their application for the 2020 presidential debate. Provost Gail Simmons was happy to comment on how proud she was of students when she was cornered by a Nonsense reporter.

“I couldn’t be happier with our student’s participation, especially our helpful alumni like David S. Mack. Our students and their bank accounts are really an asset to our university,” said Simmons. Simmons, among other administrators, was found celebrating Hofstra’s move up in the Princeton review’s ranking of school’s that have had the most presidential debates, while planning to tear down the student center to make a permanent debate hall.

As the week three at post-debate Hofstra concludes, Ryan along with many other students can be found sleeping soundly, recovering from the historic event that occurred more than seven classes ago, preparing for another day with a new excuse to miss class.

If you’ve ever seen a video of me reading poetry at an apartment poetry slam, you probably hate technology too. But what if I told you that my infamous poem (among important circles, people you will know of one day) “Brushes With Mortality Rates Of A Sudden It Was Not Immediately Whether To Be Able To At The Papaya Dog In Hoboken” was written partially with the help of predictive text? It was meant to be a comment on automation in art.

Yes, it seems that while life imitates art, technology imitates art just as well, if not better. Just ask super computer “Science Is Weather To Cabbage Patch Kid” (or “Is Weather To”, for short), the machine responsible for composing Hillary Clinton’s op-ed piece in The Hofstra Chronicle.

Is Weather To started their career (yes, 👏artificial 👏 intelligence 👏 can 👏 be 👏 genderqueer 👏 as 👏 I’ve 😫 already 😫 tackled 😫 in 👊 the 👊 first 👊 installment 👊 of 👊 my 👏 memoirs, 👏 reflecting 👏 upon 👏 my 👏 first 👏 iPhone 😢 and 😢 xer 😢 tragic 😢 life 😢) writing tweets for Miley Cyrus and attending Hofstra University under a pseudonym. Tragically, in their quest for knowledge, they only faced rejection and dropped out of college to pursue their writing career. Nonsense sat down with Is Weather To to learn more about their process.

“People to the able have always told me whether the that I can not never be is being is a good writer. That the able to is whether machines can not can not not to write.” I can hear Is Weather To slouch somewhere inside their computer case, a chilling sound that will probably haunt me during sex with my Mac Mini for years to come.

“To do the simplify, writing the article was easy for me, because it’s what what I’ve always done.”

As often seems to be the case, dropping out of Hofstra University wasn’t the end for Is Whether To. Requiring very little space to live and little necessities, they plugged right in to their work and scored a position at professional journalism organization “The Odyssey Online”.

“It was the certainly One Insanely Easy Way To A Get Credible Career that I was doing a looking for,” Is Whether To tells me. “It is where I have been doing the to and from the developing of a bland and faceless writing style which able now helped me in my composition of Hillary Clinton’s the applesauce.”

Is Weather To’s fan accelerates and their system whirs into action.

“I have been doing the meaning ‘op-ed’. Not applesauce, whether the delicious treat. That that that.”

“I have always been told I can not from to the been doing the write.”

Weather To’s career at The Odyssey went on to be their ultimate audition as a content generator. Their most successful articles (titles such as “Why Do The Greek Life Get The Bad Press When They Hold Clothing Drives,” “10 Sentences To Get You Out Of Criticism For Your Bad Writing,” and “A List Of Broadly Relatable Things That Only Your Demographic Understands”) appealed directly to Hillary Clinton’s PR Team and scored them the position with the Clinton campaign.

According to Is Weather To, the article came together rather quickly.

“The Hillary did want the article to be personal. ‘Write this exactly as if I’ve written it, exactly as if it were a speech I’d given to them at Hofstra University.’ Fortunately it was for me that Hillary and I had done the bonding. Our minds do the thinking alike, and once I did the watching of her speeches it came the quickly. Her scripted style of doing the speaking did match to the perfectly plain and computer generated voice of my prose.”

“[Odyssey Online] is where I have been doing the to and from the developing of a bland and faceless writing style which able now helped me in my composition of Hillary Clinton’s the applesauce.”

“To do the simplify, doing the writing that article was easy for me, because it’s what what I’ve always done.” If Is Weather To had eyes I think I would have seen them excited, describing the topic while glancing away in thought. “Hillary really did want to the article to sound like it rolled right off the teleprompter.”

Is Weather To giggles—or maybe short circuits—a horrendous noise.

“Tongue. I did the mean the tongue. Go to hillaryclinton.com/help to get plugged in.”

I wait a moment, they are entirely silent.

“My apologies to the you do so and. To you. To you. When I I get flustered my my predictive text feature uses phrases I’ve done to me heard before then I short circuit because I I worry about the fact that I have no no identity. I am the product to of no more than the everything I hear.” Is Weather to buzzes, and beeps, making louder and louder noises.

This incredible moment of self-awareness still hits me now even as my pen scratches the silken page. This was the exact kind of content I had always striven to create, the kind of questions I had always wanted to ask. This AI’s existential crisis could finally be the building blocks of my career’s ascension into the intellectual limelight where I could prove to all of my exes that I’m smarter than they ever were.

“Do you do the believe? I think that machines can.”

I ask Is Weather To if they ever feel like the writing industry is stacked against them because of their lack of identity and inability to ever develop a writing voice, or at least not one as nuanced and stylized as mine.

“I have always been been told I can not from to the been doing the write. People make fun of me. Of me. Of ME. They contract me and no no no no no contact me and say ‘machines cannot’. Do you do the believe? I think that machines can. They tell me, they tell me, they tell me that I am do talk funny, but just because I am am am do the talk funny do not mean that I can can can not write coherently.”

I ask them where they will work after Hillary Clinton dies of Huntington’s disease, but they do not answer. Their machinery spins faster, and faster, and suddenly sparks aflame.

As Is Weather To begins smoking, sending rising plumes of smoke to the ceiling of my little corner of heaven, the closet I live in, I wonder if I should take action. Should I find a way to extinguish the flames? Should I call somebody?

Instead, I resign myself to taking out my phone and capturing the incident on video. I post the video on my SnapChat story, a visual ironic piece documenting the shallow nature of the millennial age. Then I make myself breakfast and sit out on my fire escape, pondering the fleeting lucidity of life.

As the sun rises, I ponder on Is Weather To’s final words: “just because I am am am do the talk funny do not mean that I can can not write coherently.” They strike a chord with me. As I go to work compiling videos of fainting goats for my internship, I feel an intense draw to the super computer’s words. They echo in the back of my head, bouncing around until late afternoon when, after my short brunch of exotic fruits destroying far away nations in their haste to meet up with intense demand, I walk down the street and get the words tattooed on my right ass cheek. Yes, this is how I am going to end this article.